


Messy

by s179_276sp



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Beta Read, Pining, Some angst, Some feels, Spoilers for all seasons, Swearing, i still don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-03 01:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13330905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s179_276sp/pseuds/s179_276sp
Summary: John is kind of a mess. He likes to make messes too.





	1. Neat & Tidy

Sometimes John looks at his boss and gets frustrated. It’s a deep frustration that seems to come from the very pit of his stomach. It’s such a stupid thing to get annoyed at. With all the chaos in their life, he should be grateful for this constant. But instead, it serves to irritate him. John never claimed to be an unemotional guy.

The thing is is that Finch is just so damn _neat_. He’s tidy, prissy, fussy, and stuffy. Everything about him in is in perfect order. His appearance is pristine, his clothes pressed, his speech flawless. Does he even realize it? Does he look at the mere mortals around him and become annoyed too? Or is John self-conscious about how he usually will come into the Library with a torn suit, ash in his hair, and blood dripping down the side of his face? John is often a mess. And he makes messes too. That’s how it goes. Another constant. 

John peered past the bookshelves at the computer monitors. There he is. Sitting primly upright, typing and scrolling without hesitation but with occasional murmuring under his breath. Dressed in a dark gray pinstriped three-piece suit with a yellow tie and pocket square. _So damn neat_. John felt an overwhelming desire to make a mess. He often felt this out in the field. So he’d go and blow up a building or crash a truck. 

His long legs took him to Finch’s desk before he could think past his destructive haze. Finch looked up with a small lopsided smile.

“Mr. Reese! Is all well with Ms. Fielders?”

“Sure, Finch,” John drawled as his eyes darted over his employer’s body, “She’s great. I’m great. You look great.”

This was a pause. Reese wondered where all his interpersonal skills went. Finch peered closely, probably trying to see if Reese’s pupils were dilated unnaturally. “Are you feeling all right, John?”

“This is nice.” Before he could recall it, his hand reached out and plucked at Finch’s pocket square. It was mustard yellow and checked, like the tie. Finch was frowning now, glaring at John’s hand still fondling the piece of fabric.

“It’s a Corneliani.” Another moment passed quietly. “Are you certain you are well, John?”

The pocket square was now misshapen and limp. John smiled a little. “Yeah, I’m good, Finch.” 

The pocket square was out of order the rest of the evening.


	2. Hair

Finch’s hair was likely the least put together part of him. It stuck up straight and rarely seemed able to be tamed. Until Reese saw it laid flat and pushed off to the side for one of Finch’s other identities. So it was possible. Yet Finch chose to wear it that way. John didn’t stop smiling for a couple hours after learning that. 

However, even the seemingly unmanageable hair had a set of standards Finch apparently enforced. It looked the same every day. No matter the weather or time of the day, it was tidy. It was to be his next project, Reese decided. The hair had to be mussed.

The opportunity presented itself three days later. It was the little groan Finch let out as he sank back into his ergonomic desk chair. It had been a long case with a lot of both of their time spent on their feet. Mostly running from danger. The usual. 

John made sure to scuff his shoes on the floor as he came up behind the chair. No reason to encourage him to retreat. Finch didn’t stiffen. So he laid his hands on the sitting man’s shoulders. Ah, there was the straightening of the spine and the deer-in-the-headlights look. Without a word, John began gently massaging the neck and shoulders. Finch seemed to come to a decision to relax and let it happen. John concentrated on working the tense muscles and avoiding the scars that lined what little of Finch’s spine he could see. Harold gave a little sigh of pleasure and John moved his hands north. To the hair. He rubbed at the base of the neck, spiking up the straight line across. Slowly he worked to the temples, mussing up the hair and making it stand straight out. John went close as he dared to those adorable sideburns, wishing he could truly be running his palm against them. He kindly returned his hands to the shoulders, pleased by the result of his ministrations. All of the hair was thoroughly displaced and it looked marvelous to John. He came to a stop and patted Finch on the shoulder one more time before moving away. He had caught a glance of Harold’s relaxed expression and tousled hair in the computer screen. 

John was inordinately happy with the entire world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is because I was so shook when I saw Michael Emerson's character in Lost with his hair smoothed down.
> 
> Note: Not beta read. I do not own these characters.


	3. Tie

It wasn’t in any way weird that Reese kept track of Finch’s moods by how he tied his tie. On bad days, the ties were simple and regular. On the good days, where he was the physical pain was minimal, the cases were going good, and nothing catastrophic had happened in the world, Finch would do something complicated and fussy. John asked one time and got a thirty-six minute lecture and even an up close and personal demonstration of the Eldredge, Trinity, and Van Wijk, which were apparently in Finch’s top three favorite knots. Reese came away from the impromptu tie class with a headache and a hard-on. 

Of course John fantasized about how exactly he’d mess up Finch’s tie. Would he be able to get away with grabbing the tie to pull Harold closer until their breaths were mingled? Could it be on the floor of his apartment along with the rest of the damn suit? Or, hell, used to restrain John’s hands to the headboard? 

But this way, right here and now, had never crossed John’s mind and he hated it. He hated every fucking moment that ruined his fun side project. 

It was on the pavement behind a warehouse on the river. That dirty, filthy pavement that made more of a mess of Finch than John had ever wanted. There was the mess of blood everywhere – on the ground, on John, on the suit, on their hands, on _Harold_. 

He was gasping for air, the blood already filling his airways. The bullet was still in him, John knew. 

“It’s okay, Finch, Fusco is on his way. Megan is standing by. You’ll be okay. You’re all right.”

“John-” Blood trickled from the corner of Harold’s mouth.

John pulled on the cherry red tie (an appropriate color, John mused) and unbuttoned the first two buttons of Harold’s tan now-stained shirt. “Breathe for me, Harold, please.” His blue eyes were still bright and clear and latched onto John’s. “I promise, you’ll be okay, stay with me. _Breathe_.”

John's grip on the tie loosened only when Harold obeyed and continued to breathe.


	4. Glasses

They were standing in a park on a sunny day. Bear was playing with some of his new friends and Harold was watching happily. John was watching Harold just as happily. That’s when John realized that even Harold’s glasses were clean. There was never a smudge on them, despite how many times Harold pushes them up during the day. John loved those moments when Harold would get excited about a topic and begin to ramble, his mouth barely able to keep up with his brain. In his enthusiasm, his glasses would slip down his nose and he’d push them back into place and keep going. Or when John would lean over into his personal space at the desk and he’d have to push them closer to his eyes in order to see John clearly. It was precious and it made a warm feeling bubble up in John. 

Or how the tracker on them had led to Harold sighing as he opened his front door. _Well, you may as well stay for dinner. Set the table, John._ He had said with a slight tug of a smile that told John he wasn’t really in any trouble. It had become habit. Harold would take Bear, lock up the Library, and either walk or take a cab to that night’s house or apartment. John would follow at a distance to check for any tails, then he’d circle the perimeter a few times, checking for any weaknesses in security (he never found any), and finally, an hour later, he’d ring the bell and be let in with a smirk. Harold knew what he was doing and let him. In fact, he encouraged it. It was a nice routine that they never really spoke of. Like many things in their relationship, it just happened and they adjusted and were okay with it. 

So yeah, John liked Harold’s glasses. They made the man. The first time John saw Harold without the glasses, they were both uncomfortable until Harold remedied it. He looked naked and vulnerable without. It reminded John just how fragile his little bird of a boss was. How important the man was to John. How he had to protect him with everything he had, come hell or high water. 

Just as a rush of affection flooded John’s head and heart, Harold turned in his stiff-necked way to smile at him. John ducked his head and pressed his mouth to Harold’s. Well, he tried to. It landed more on the corner of the smaller man’s mouth. Harold gasped a little in surprise as John pulled back. 

“Mr. Reese!” Harold’s ears were pink. He looked downright shocked and put out. John winced and awaited the scolding. “Please, not in public! It’s far too dangerous!” Still looking disgruntled, he turned back to the dog run. “Bear, hier!” Obediently, with his tongue rolling, Bear came to a stop in front of Harold, who attached the lease. Looking back at John with a frown, he spoke again, “Are you coming or have you another way to attract all of the park’s attention?” Without waiting for a response, Harold began walking.

John stood stock still and grinned like an idiot. _Harold’s glasses were tilted and smudged where they had pressed against John’s own face._ Harold looked positively ravished like that. It made all sorts of inappropriate ideas surface in his head. Oh, the things he could do!

Finch was limping away yet and John hurried to fall into step next to him. The grin stayed on his face for a long time. 

Harold hadn’t fixed his glasses yet.


	5. Mouth

“She’s cooking supper, Finch. It looks like chicken alfredo. Speaking of,” John dropped his camera to stare bare-eyed at the apartment, “Have you eaten at all today, Harold?”

_“I had tea.”_

“That isn’t eating, Harold.”

_“And have you?”_

John purposely crinkled the nearby discarded food wrappers. “Of course. If you haven’t got your health, you haven’t got anything.”

Finch paused. _“Princess Bride, Mr. Reese?”_

He grinned. “As you wish, Harold.”

_“Hm.”_

“Aren’t you a romantic?”

_“I fear the practicalities of our vigilante lifestyle leaves little time to romanticize anything.”_

“Or anyone?”

He huffed. _“You know the answer to that, Mr. Reese.”_

John took a moment to reply Harold’s previous sentence. _I fear the practicalities of our vigilante lifestyle leaves little time to romanticize anything._ How absolutely old-fashioned and **stuffy**. Harold has a hundred dollar vocabulary even under the most stressful times. John wondered just what it would take to make the man stutter or – even better – be rendered speechless. 

John eyed the newest Number, who was cooking and dancing in her kitchen contentedly. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. John had some time to play around. 

“Do I? I don’t know who you sneak off to see at night.”

_“I can assure you, there is nobody.”_

“We can fix that. You know that computer geek shtick is in these days, Harold.”

_“Is it?”_

“Mmhm. I’ll get you started on programming and turn you loose in a crowd. I bet my favorite grenade launcher you’d come back with a dozen numbers from the ladies.”

_“I do not believe that is necessary, Mr. Reese.”_

“You know what they say about a guy who repairs computers.”

_“And what is that?”_

“He’s good with his hands.”

_“Clearly. It is delicate work.”_

“Now, Harold, save your dirty talk for the bedroom.”

_“M-Mr. Reese!”_ Harold sputtered.

John bit in his laughter. “Unless you want to practice on me.”

_“I can assure you,_ Mr. Reese _, that is a pointless exercise.”_

“Fine, _Mr. Finch_. But don’t come crying to me when you start getting complaints.”

_“There is no one else, John!”_

John’s entire world constricted to Harold’s voice in his ear, rushing alongside his blood directly to his heart. His breath caught as his brain struggled to let that sink in. He swallowed loudly and blinked rapidly. He could picture Harold’s wide eyes, twitching hands, and small pink mouth opening and closing uselessly, unsure how to – or if he even could – retract the words that had slipped from his mouth to John’s ears.

John hadn’t expected it to go quite this way. It was meant to tease, to ruffle Finch’s smooth, fine feathers. Not to bare the truth so brutally. His eyes fluttered shut. _Shit_. He hadn’t wanted to embarrass or anger the dear man. They hadn’t discussed the kiss. Nor had they repeated it. John saw the importance of taking it slow, so as not to frighten Finch away. They were both careful with their emotions. And John was okay with waiting for however long it took. Finch was worth it. Now he had botched it.

Playing it off as a joke may work. A quick _‘I’m flattered, Finch’_ and then keep going like nothing of significance had happened. But why? Did he really want to bury the truth to spare them the awkwardness? Honesty it was.

He cleared his throat. “Good. Me neither. I mean, there’s no one else for me either. Just you, Harold.”

John wondered if Harold had hung up. Finally, a response came. _“Yes. Good. John.”_ Reese smiled fondly. Harold’s ability to speak was slow to come back online.


	6. Suit

The car came to a stop by hitting a telephone pole. Reese got out and started walking, ignoring the people asking him if he was okay. He didn’t look okay, he knew that. In addition to the bloody mess on his temple and side, he was pissed. Reese knew he had a bit of a resting bitch face. It made people get out of his way and stop asking questions, if they were smart. 

There was still a mile to go before he got to the Library. Enough time to calm down at least a bit. No reason to scare Finch needlessly.

They had lost verbal contact six hours earlier, in the midst the latest Case from Hell. Everything was going wrong; everybody was picking a fight; and John? He was tired. It was all so shitty. He wanted to be curled up with a book listening to Harold type. The last time he had contact with Finch was an hour ago, via Fusco who was helping wrap the case up. _Glasses says to get home, Wonder Boy_ – Fusco said after hanging up. And John had followed his siren’s call as quick as possible. 

He walked like a man with a purpose. Which he was. It was time. Life was too short to wait. 

He took the steps two at a time. Finch was standing at the glass board, with his back to John, taking the most recent Number’s information off of it. John slowed down to watch the meticulousness. There was tension in his shoulders. There was a tiredness to his uneven steps. He dropped a picture and bent to pick it up. _Fuck_. The expertly tailored pants tightened around Finch’s backside perfectly. That damn suit wrapped him up like a gift. How many layers until John could touch skin? How many licks to the center of Harold? Certainly he wore an undershirt, boxers (likely silk, John considered), and fine socks. Then there was a long-sleeved, Egyptian cotton shirt with a million tiny buttons and those fancy cufflinks. The knotted tie layered under a vest and suit jacket. And those snug pants with a button up fly. Finally, the freshly polished shoes with a careful, neat double knot holding them in place.

John had to repress a groan as he walked closer silently. It was sexy to contemplate the real flesh and body hidden beneath those layers. It was even sexier to know that under all that expensive fitted clothing lay a man with a pure heart and gentle ways who found it in himself to raise John Reese from hell back to life. 

“Harold,” John murmured from the shelves. 

Harold spun on his heel. “John,” He breathed out. He approached hurriedly. “Oh thank god you’re safe.” His hands fluttered from John’s temple, to side, to shoulders, then back to his face. “Are you all right, aren’t you?”

“Harold, is there any blood around my mouth?”

A flicker of confusion appeared in those sharp blue eyes. “What? No, no, there isn’t.”

“Good. Because I’m going to kiss you.”

Harold’s mouth was curling to say a surprised ‘oh’ when John leaned down to capture it. A moment of hesitation and then Harold’s hands came to rest on John’s cheeks. 

John pulled back. “All right?”

“Yes.”

John returned to kissing the soft, delicate mouth in front of him with a careful patience. It was nice and chaste and reminded John of his junior prom. Then Harold opened his mouth with a little sigh and John just about lost it. 

He groaned into the openness beneath him and fisted his hands into the lapels of Harold’s suit. Walking them backwards until Harold gently bumped into a bookshelf, John licked and nipped at his partner’s mouth with a single-minded focus. He loosened the tie and buttons to kiss his way down Harold’s neck. The smaller man was panting and whining and, oddly enough, wiggling relentlessly (John privately thought this to be adorable). He unbuttoned the vest and pulled Harold from the shelf long enough to push it and the jacket off his shoulders. The tie needed to go soon too, but John didn’t want to stop for that long.

Harold’s nimble hands were skimming John’s suit too, dipping under and then back out to smooth his biceps. Then to his hair, down his neck, and settling at the waist, only to move again in a few seconds. His heavy breathing and quiet little ‘John’s’ filled the silence stoicism of the Library. It wasn’t until Harold rolled his hips just so that John removed his mouth from Harold’s face with a moan. 

“Oh, god, Harold, Jesus.”

“While I hope to continue hearing you list my name among deities, I must ask that we move to a horizontal position.”

It felt good and easy to grin lazily, happily, at the shorter man in front of John whose hands hadn’t stopped moving still. “We can do that right here.”

Harold sighed. “Not the floor, John, a real bed.”

“Your place or mine?”

“How about ours? There’s a bed in the back. Come.” Harold’s hands finally took their place in John’s. John stared for a moment at their entwined hands. This was real. This was his. This was theirs.

“Okay.”

Harold nudged him back with a smile and afforded John an opportunity to see just how disheveled the man was. Jacket and vest gone, tie askew, shirt unbuttoned, pants tenting obscenely, mouth wet and swollen, and glasses long since removed and resting safely in John’s breast pocket. He looked gorgeous. And, Harold willing, he’d look even more gorgeous in a few minutes, all stretched out on their bed.

“Follow me, John.”


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fluffy little ending to wrap this up. Thank you for reading <3

John watched absentmindedly from the bed as his husband puttered around the apartment, picking up last night’s and this afternoon’s clothing from the floor. The robe he wore wasn’t really staying tied closed and he had bedhead from their last tumble in the sheets. His glasses had been found first and restored to their rightful place on his nose. 

“Come back to bed, Harold. I’ll pick up the kitchen later.”

Harold frowned at the dishes they had abandoned on the table, then at John. “It’s messy, John.”

He smiled fondly. After all this time, he hadn’t managed to change that aspect of Harold’s personality. And he never wanted to. His husband’s fussy ways had started all of this, after all. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“That’s a terrible cliché, John.” But Harold was making his way back.

“You’re damn right it is. And you love it.”

Harold perched on the edge of the bed and kissed John’s forehead. “Of course I do.”

They tangled their hands together again. John felt a pensive mood slip over him. They had been through so much in their lives. So much heartache. They were messes without each other. Now they complement one another perfectly. Harold made John feel again and John made Harold willing to trust enough to feel once more. 

“I love you, Harold.” John burst out.

“I love you too, John.” Harold smiled softly. “Always.”

“Even when I make messes?”

He laughed. “Especially then. You give me something to clean up.”

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a common trope in this fandom and I honestly love it so much. I'm fairly certain this is somewhat original, but if anyone knows a fanfiction that is similar that I must have drawn inspiration from, let me know! Thank you! :) Also, the title makes this seem like it's going to be dirtier than it actually is...sorry!
> 
> Note: Not beta read. I do not own these characters.


End file.
